


a sign of the times

by orphan_account



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Black Humor, Families of Choice, Minor Character Death, Relationship Issues, Self-Discovery, rebuilding friendship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:41:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22468042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: When Parse's father dies, Jack realizes that he and Parse have unfinished business he wants to conclude once and for all, for whatever value of "finished" they decide on.
Relationships: Kent "Parse" Parson & Jack Zimmermann
Comments: 8
Kudos: 41





	1. welcome to the final show

**Author's Note:**

> Characters and situations belong to Ngozi. Story and chapter titles (and general theme) come from Harry Styles's "Sign of the Times".
> 
> Story will be updated weekly, schedule permitting. Feedback, including constructive criticism, is welcomed and appreciated.

Parson’s mom left during his first year of mite hockey. The way Parse told it to Jack, back when they first played together, was wildly naïve and profoundly sad, although Jack didn’t think so at the time. Parse had said that she had always wanted to be a ballerina and that once her little boy was old enough to start going after his dream that it was time for her to try and get hers back too. Parse had sounded so proud of her, so happy that she was doing whatever it took to follow the path she’d been born for.

Jack remembers understanding exactly how Jessie Parson felt, exactly how her son felt about her too, but he also remembers feeling awkward. The hope in Parse’s voice that someday she’d come back and be his mother again had been so raw, Jack thinks he might have been able to taste it in Parse’s mouth when they kissed.

She looks so different now from the one photo Jack ever saw of her, but it’s clearly her. She’s tall and willowy thin, obviously a dancer or a former one at least, and she has the same Parse-style hair in both color and the swoopy cowlicks near the hairline. She looks lost, too, like she’s not sure where she belongs in this small parlor full of hockey luminaries and family members who more likely than not feel like she shouldn’t be intruding since she had left in the first place.

Jack wonders if Parse invited her, wonders how and when Parse found her and got in touch with her again. Parse’s tenacity was probably the quality he was best known for, and it wouldn’t surprise Jack if, the second he’d got his first NHL paycheck, Parse splurged on whatever he had to in order to find his mom and bring her home.

It’s odd though, Jack realizes, to feel far more connected to this woman whom he barely knows than the man for whom they are all actually gathered here this evening. Jack feels like he knows and understands Jessie Parson, or at least her motivations and desires, much more than he knows and understands David Parson. Parse’s father never had the presence in Parse’s life that Jessie seemed to carve out, despite that he had never abandoned Parse. Of course, Jack has a _thing_ about fathers.

“What are you smilin’ about, hon?” Bittle whispers up at him. He looks really good in his suit—understated, for him, in navy blue, with a soft pink dress shirt and a textured navy bowtie—and there’s a brief moment where, however inappropriate, Jack wants to tug the tie loose and gather him in close for a deep kiss.

“You,” Jack chooses to answer, rather than let Bittle in on his private little joke. It’s only funny in context.

Bittle smiles shyly at the compliment and bats lightly at Jack’s arm. “You’re too much sometimes, sweetpea,” he says, then quickly schools his expression back to one of the appropriate seriousness for a funeral service. “Hush now, I think the preacher’s about to start.”

The reverend, Jack suspects, is a concession to Parse’s grandmother because Parse hasn’t had a connection to any religion except the ice in the years Jack’s known him. She’s a short, plump woman with the same kind of haircut that Bittle has, except that the color is lavender, maybe, or gray in the low lighting of the room, and she’s wearing dark jeans and an Islanders sweatshirt. Jack smiles again, wondering exactly how that conversation went. Parse never said much about Nana Parson, but from the way her lip is curled up with obvious distaste, she clearly doesn’t have the same sense of humor that Parse and, hopefully, his dad had.

As she’s leading them through an unfamiliar prayer, Jack lets himself really look at Parse for the first time, since he and Bittle arrived too late to make their way through the line and pay their respects before the more formalized part of the service started. He’s dressed as casually as the minister is, in black skinny jeans, a long-sleeved black and red flannel, and his omnipresent snapback, this one clearly a leftover from his days in Las Vegas. It must be from the Aces’ Hockey Fights Cancer night because the spade is deep purple and shimmers a little bit as Parse moves. He never really could sit still, and it looks like he hasn’t grown out of it yet, ten or so years on now.

Jack watches as Parse drops his chin to his chest when the reverend finishes, seems to take a deep shuddery breath, and pauses for a long moment after she says that Parse will say a few words about his dad before the visitation will resume. The guy standing next to Parse puts his hand on Parse’s back and leans into Parse’s ear.

“Oh my gosh, _that’s_ who that is!”

“What?” Jack whispers back to Bittle, as he shoots what he hopes is an apologetic expression at the couple who turned around for a moment at Bittle’s quiet outburst.

Bittle winces apologetically too and casts his gaze down, but when he looks back up, eyes bright and more than a little excited, Parse strides to the front and center spot in front of the casket to begin his eulogy. “I’ll tell you later,” Bittle quickly whispers, then slips his hand into Jack’s and squeezes it.

“Dad loved hockey,” Parse begins, and Jack focuses on him instead of the unsettled feeling in his chest at being scolded and having to wait for the why of it, “and so seriously he would have been so fucking stoked at this turnout, you guys. His favorite player of all fucking _time_ is here, and I just know wherever he is, he’s totally kicking himself for not being able to shake Crosby’s hand.”

It gets all the laughs Parse was clearly angling for, and a few groans from Parse’s current and former teammates. Nana Parson seems to relax a little too, which is a good sign. Jack has a feeling Parse has a whole stand-up comedy routine ready to go. Anything to avoid the tears that always used to come so readily when he was feeling anything too fiercely. Anything to put everyone around him at ease.

When Jack was in rehab, one of his assignments had been to write his own eulogy. It had been like a sort of reverse suicide note, he supposed, meant to show him all the accomplishments he’d made as well as all the things and people he had to live for. He’d found it really difficult to complete, not because he didn’t think he had anything to share, but because he honestly hadn’t been trying to kill himself when he’d taken all those pills before the 2009 Entry Draft, unlike most of the other people in his group sessions. He had felt…not above them, but outside them. Rehab had been just another place where Jack felt he didn’t belong. Where he didn’t fit correctly. Where he stood out in a negative way.

But he remembers now, as Parse talks about the relationship he had with his dad and shares stories of growing up in Schenectady with the world’s biggest Rangers fan and betraying him utterly by winning two Stanley Cups with some flashy desert expansion team instead of a proper O-6 squad. Jack remembers saying in his little speech to the group of his supposed peers that hadn’t been able to handle the pain of their lives anymore that at the end of the day, as long as he had hockey, he would be okay.

_He’ll be okay_ , Jack thinks, watching Parse take the Aces cap off his head and play with it as he goes on talking. Parse is going to be okay because he still has hockey. He’s always going to have hockey.

“When, uh—when Dad got—” Parse cuts off, coughs and rubs his hand over his chest, clearly swallowing his grief. He inhales shaky and exhales rough, holds for a long moment.

“Ugh, poor thing,” Bittle whispers, sighing gently. He leans his head into Jack’s upper arm, and Jack wraps his arm back around him easily. “I’m so sorry for him.”

“Yeah,” Jack replies quietly. “They were…clearly close.”

Parse looks up at the crowd again, eyes wet, but smile in place. “When Dad got sick and I told him I was going to ask for the trade so I could be closer to home, he—” he pauses, this time to laugh lightly, “he told me he wasn’t going to let me unless it was his beloved Rangers. Told me that he’d call Mark Messier personally, you know because he and Mess were such good friends and all, but that was the only way he’d let me. And I think—” he pauses again, laughing louder and sounding more like himself as he continues, “no, I fucking _know_ I probably shoved him closer to the grave when I ended up a fucking Islander!”

People laugh, but it’s less easy than it was. Jack only laughs because Parse is laughing too—just like so many parties back when they were stupid teenagers and Jack just couldn’t figure out what to do to make people like him.

“No, no I’m kidding, I’m kidding. Easy, Nana, it’s all good,” Parse says, waving dismissively in her direction. “Obviously the big fucking C is what got him in the end. I’m just glad…I’m just glad I could be here with him on the way out. I’m glad that I could be here for the end of it all.” He turns and puts his hand on the casket. “Sorry your last shift was so hard, Dad. I wish I could have made it easier.”

There’s another long moment where Parse just stands there looking at his father’s body and breathing—maybe his eyes are closed, actually, Jack is too far away to see clearly—but then he turns back to the crowd and gestures to everyone. “Thank you, seriously, for coming here tonight. I know you’ve all got busy lives and schedules and everything, but I really appreciate it. And I know…I know Dad would too.”

“We love you, kid,” calls a voice that Jack recognizes but can’t quite place, and the room rumbles with laughter again when Parse bats his eyelashes in the direction of whoever said it.

“I’m very lovable,” Parse replies. “All right, that’s enough talking from me. I think we’ve got another, ah, hour maybe here and then the burial will be tomorrow morning at ten-thirty at Bryburn Cemetery about five miles or so from here. That’s mostly just family, but you know…ah, you’re welcome if you want to stick around and all. You’re my—heh, you know you all are my family now.”

Something uncomfortable settles heavily in Jack’s chest, and Bittle squeezes his hand like he knows. Obviously in this case, Parse isn’t talking to him specifically, but Jack feels that old familiar frisson of anxiety. He finds himself seeking out Jessie Parson again, focusing on whatever her reaction is to Parse’s statement. Because it’s not even—it’s not like he’s even saying anything bad.

There’s something sort of lovely and soft in Jessie’s expression as she watches her son make a whole room full of people feel at ease even though they’re in the midst of such a sad moment. And while Jack is focused on her, he sees Parse glance around the room and finally meet her eyes. They share something unreadable between them for just a moment, and Jack can’t help but feel like he’s suddenly intruding even more than he had before.

“Jack, it’s okay,” Bittle says quietly, turning his face up so he can speak more directly into Jack’s ear.

“We—we shouldn’t be here,” Jack replies. “This was a mistake. We shouldn’t have come.”

“Why?”

_Isn’t it obvious?_ Jack thinks, but does not say, too concerned that he’ll snap it at Bittle, who doesn’t deserve it at all, or just be so loud that everyone will turn around and look at him. He takes what he hopes is a discreet deep breath to stop himself from hyperventilating and squeezes Bittle a little closer against his side. “Let’s go. We should go,” he says.

Bittle sighs too, soft and natural, but Jack hears judgment in it, even though he knows logically that Bittle would never judge him for behaving this way. Because it’s not Jack’s fault that even now, years later, the silliest, smallest things can still set him off, and Bittle would never judge him for something that isn’t his fault. “We should at least go up and pay our respects, but then we can absolutely go, honey,” he says, as he brushes his thumb over Jack’s knuckles.

“I don’t know if I—no. No, you’re right,” Jack responds, as the line of people starts to resume going past the casket and then shaking hands with Parse and Nana and a couple other people Jack doesn’t recognize, but must be Parse’s closer relatives. “Do you think…” but Jack trails off, holds in his question because it’s foolish to ask aloud. Of course it’s not really the best idea for both of them to walk up there together, flaunting themselves in Parse’s face when Parse is in the middle of grieving his father, but they are already here and it’s the done thing at a funeral, after all, to pay your respects to the family of the deceased.

“We’ll be quick,” Bittle says, as they stand up and make their way to the line, “and it’ll be over before you know it, and then we’ll go back to the hotel for a bit before we meet up with your folks for dinner.”

“Okay,” Jack acknowledges. He surreptitiously wipes his clammy hands over his thighs and avoids looking for the wince he’s certain he’ll see on Bittle’s face at the way he’s probably ruining his dress pants or something. Jack hates that he still gets like this sometimes—too anxious suddenly to read into every minute expression and gesture and comment with anything other than bad faith. Bittle loves him and absolutely does not care if he ruins his dress pants by wrinkling them with his sweaty hands. The thought likely hasn’t even crossed his mind at all. Anxious minds work very differently than normal ones.

_Non-anxious_ , Jack corrects himself in his head. The opposite of anxious is non-anxious, not _normal_.

“Lord, they look so alike,” Bittle then says, and Jack realizes they’ve reached the casket.

He’s not wrong—Parse clearly takes after David in so many ways, except for the hair. Jack suspects that if, however creepy it might have been, if they’d left David’s eyes open, they would have been the same strange color that Parse’s are. But the resemblance is there in the cheekbones and nose, the chin and forehead. The cancer obviously took much of David’s muscle and strength away, but it’s not difficult to imagine that he and Parse had similar body-types once upon a time too.

And it hits Jack like a too-hard check in the gut that this is what it would look like if Parse died.

“I’m so sorry for your loss, hon,” Bittle is saying with sincerity, patting the top of Parse’s hand where they’re holding each other.

Jack grips the side of the casket to steady himself, a wave of something like nausea rolling through him. This—this is Parse, if he were gone for good.

“Thanks, man,” Parse responds, equally sincere. “Appreciate you coming out.”

Jack holds out his hand for Parse to take and swallows hard against the ugly feeling that’s moved now from his gut to his throat. He can’t say anything at first, especially as Parse looks at him like he’s literally anyone else. Like he’s just another someone in this sea of someones who maybe didn’t know David Parson personally, but came to say how sorry he was for Parse’s loss because he knew Parse pretty well, once upon a time.

“Thanks for coming,” Parse says after an awkward moment. “Appreciate it, man.”

It’s so generic and Parse clearly doesn’t mean it, but it’s okay. It’s the part of the script he has to pick up since Jack clearly flubbed his line.

“Come on, sweetpea,” Bittle says quietly, but urgently, when Jack doesn’t move along like he should.

“I miss you,” Jack says, even and precise and a little too loud to his own ears. “Kenny, I miss you.”


	2. just stop your crying

Papa’s looking at Jack with the kind of sympathy in his eyes that Jack usually and unkindly mistakes for pity, and Maman’s look of horrified shock disappears quickly beneath something that looks like she’s listening without judgment even though she’s absolutely judging the hell out of him in her mind. Fuck, he’d rather they were laughing at him because at least it’d be more straightforward. And it is kind of funny, honestly. Jack will find it funny later anyway.

“It wasn’t—oh gosh,” Bittle politely steps in and redirects smoothly, “no one ever says the right thing at these types of things, anyway, right? I’m sure, Pars—Kent knows what you meant.”

Jack can’t help but snort at that because yes, he’s quite sure that Parse knows exactly what Jack meant. Even if Jack himself isn’t all that sure.

“Right, right,” Papa agrees, “probably just a blip on the radar, son.”

_So, something quite noticeable then,_ Jack thinks, letting the shame roll over him again as he relives it: the involuntary sound Parse made, the sudden hard look in his eyes, the clamp of his hand like a vice around Jack’s own, and, worst of all, the way Bittle’d had to usher him away when he planted himself there like some kind of idiot lump waiting for Parse to say something in return.

“I couldn’t have been more awkward if I tried—no, Bittle, it’s true,” Jack heads off what is sure to be the kind of reassuring platitudes that Bittle is both very good at and, perhaps embarrassingly, usually works really well on Jack when he’s in a mood like this. “I feel so stupid. I don’t even know what came over me.”

Maman’s gaze softens and she reaches out across the table to take Jack’s hand. Jack knows what she’s thinking now—that even as recently as a couple years ago, Jack would not have been able to say any of that out loud in front of them. “Eric is right, Jack. I’m quite sure that Kent is just glad that you were able to come support him today,” she insists, running her thumb over Jack’s knuckles the same way she always used to when Jack would get upset.

The urge to clam up comes on incredibly strong; Jack feels his vulnerability pulling tight in his stomach, like he didn’t stretch enough after a workout or didn’t drink enough water. He puts down his fork and squeezes Maman’s hand briefly before pulling away and settling his hands in his lap. “It was a mistake,” he says, purposely pushing through the humiliation because he’s better now. He’s better than he used to be and he can talk out what he’s feeling with the people he loves without completely falling apart.

Papa and Maman exchange worried glances, and Bittle leans over a little to press up against Jack for a few moments. “It wasn’t a mistake, sweetpea,” he says, soft and firm, “and it’s over now anyway, so no harm, no foul. Now we’re just on vacation, right?”

He could take the proffered out, he supposes, and it would probably be better for everyone at the table if he did. Jack can see it in all their faces that they want him to forget anything happened at all, but he can already feel himself obsessing. It’s too late to stop the course of it. Jack gets something in his head and he can’t let it go until he’s worked it through to its conclusion.

“It was a—”

“—oh my goodness!” Bittle interrupts, whether to purposely stop Jack talking more about his faux pas or because it really did just occur to him. “In all the, uh, commotion, I completely forgot! Did you see that boy who was standing with Kent up there in the receiving line?”

A little smile appears on Maman’s lips for so brief a moment that Jack would think he imagined it had he not been looking right at her. “In the gray suit?” she asks, knowing and airy.

Jack had spent so much time watching Jessie Parson and then embarrassing himself in front of Parse that he can’t recall who Bittle and Maman are talking about, but then he closes his eyes and tries to picture the line. There was a tall man with long sort of curly hair in a color Jack wasn’t sure he could accurately describe, wearing a fitted gray suit with a black dress shirt and no tie—both of them, really, too casual for the event, except that maybe that’s what David Parson would have wanted and Jack was the one who’d dressed inappropriately out of ignorance. He wasn’t exactly Jack’s type, but he was handsome. Pretty, maybe, if Jack felt like being unfair. “Should I know him?” he then asks.

“Honey, I swear, that was Theo Graham!” Bittle announces, grinning like Jack should have any idea.

“You’d be right, Eric,” confirms Maman, and Bittle turns his grin on her, clapping his hands in front of his chest. “He’s such a sweet young man.”

“If I didn’t know better,” Papa says, laughter in his tone, “I’d say _you_ had a crush on the little bastard too.”

“Bob!” she laughs, giving him a good-natured slap on the shoulder.

Jack thinks, unfairly again he knows, that sometimes he could swear he’s dating his mother. “Is this supposed to be someone I know?” he then interjects, when it becomes clear that they’ve changed topics and bringing it back to what he actually wants to discuss will only cause more tension.

“Theo Graham!” Bittle says again. “From _The Lonely Wise_?”

“Oh, right, yeah, from, uh…” Jack trails off and picks up his fork and knife to return his attentions to his steak. “Netflix,” he finishes.

“It’s such a good show,” Bittle gushes, and Maman nods.

Papa shrugs, but nods too, agreeing easily, “I didn’t think I’d like it at first, but I have to admit, it won me over after a couple episodes. The music is so good too.”

“Yes, oh my god! I’m completely obsessed. I’m pretty sure I read somewhere that they actually all play their own instruments? And I think Theo actually writes quite a bit of the music himself! But, oh gosh, I probably shouldn’t even ask, but…so is…I mean, well, Theo and Kent Parson aren’t _related,_ are they?”

“Does Kenny even like artsy guys?” Jack asks and immediately recoils at how weirdly nasty he sounds. Part of him thinks he shouldn’t even have left the damn hotel. He’s clearly still in a fucking mood, and he doesn’t want to be out right now. And now, of course, they’re all looking at him again like he’s going to blow up or snap. And the worst part, Jack knows, is that he can actually feel himself wanting to give in and do exactly that. He wants to yell at them. He wants to say something mean and cutting and rude, and then he wants to storm off and wallow in his own anger until it mellows into the self-pity or self-loathing that inevitably comes afterwards.

"Oh, um, gosh—sweetpea, I didn’t, um, I really didn’t mean anything by it—”

“I’m sorry,” Jack interrupts, because an apology is expected of him, regardless of whether or not he actually means it at the moment and regardless of whether or not he recognizes that an apology is warranted. He does, of course. There’s no reason to be nasty to Bittle or his mother about whomever Parse chooses to date.

And as much as Jack is sure that to anyone outside the situation, casually observing him, his surge of emotion looks like jealousy, he’s pretty confident that it’s not. Parse has nothing that Jack doesn’t also have. Jack has more, even, which the same awkward, ugly part of him that can’t stop obsessing about their brief and stupid interaction, the same part that feels sick and weird and wrong at the thought of Parse dying and Jack never getting to say—god, _what_ to him, that same part that cannot figure out what the fuck he’s feeling aside from suddenly miserable and angry; that part wants to throw everything that Jack has in Parse’s face and say _look at all that I got without you!_

“I’m sorry.” Jack repeats it again, much softer this time, as he pushes back from the table. “I’m just not—I’m going back to the hotel. Sorry.”

“Do you,” Bittle timidly begins, “want me to come with you, hon?”

Jack does, but also knows that in this state, it’s possible all he’ll do is yell. “Yes please,” he asks anyway. Bittle’s always been so good with him, even and especially when Jack felt he didn’t deserve it. He’s been such a comfort. The anxiety hasn’t been this bad in years, but Jack feels confident, perhaps unearned, but he doesn’t know, that Bittle will be able to calm him down again.

“That’s fine, son,” Papa says, in the same soft tone he adopted after Jack’s overdose—like Jack is a wild animal that needs coaxing into a cage rather than a person who just has complicated thoughts and feelings sometimes. “We’ll see you tomorrow for brunch?”

“ _Bob_ ,” Maman says—and Jack feels a stab of irritation that spreads across his chest as she continues on, addressing him, “don’t worry about us, sweetheart. If you’re not up for it, we completely understand.”

“Right, yeah, thank you,” Jack says sullenly, rubbing a hand over his chest, like that will help dislodge the feeling somehow.

“I’ll text you later,” Bittle says, and somehow, it’s something as simple and innocuous as _that_ that makes Jack shut down entirely.

He doesn’t remember the ride back to the hotel or the substance of the soothing chatter Bittle keeps up for his benefit. He doesn’t recall the elevator up to their floor or the short walk to their room or undressing for bed even though it’s barely ten o’clock. He watches, though, as Bittle tugs up his socks and adjusts himself in his little shorts, and it shouldn’t be erotic probably, but Jack’s more than a little conditioned at this point in their relationship, and he can feel himself rousing out of the stupor from his cocktail of anger and fear and shame.

It shouldn’t be so easy, though, he thinks, as he Bittle yawns widely and then turns to grin at him. “You feeling better?”

“No,” Jack admits, “but I want to anyway.”

The expression of disgust is so immediate, Jack feels himself respond in kind, which only compounds the shame. He knows better than to have suggested it—Bittle is never in the mood when Jack’s been sulky or upset about something, and Jack knows he shouldn’t really feel like he’s up for it either. But sex always gets him out of his head, just like hockey does. The physicality of it, putting his body to work in the service of his partner or his team, proving that he’s good and worthy if his partner gets off or his team wins; Jack loves the way it makes him feel.

Anything is preferable at the moment to the messy swirl of negative emotions he can’t shake. “Come here,” he invites, patting his lap.

“Jack,” Bittle sighs, disappointed, and stands his ground.

“Not for that,” Jack promises and means it. “I’m sorry, you’re right. I’m not…I don’t really want to. I just want to hold you. Please.”

Bittle just looks at him for a few long moments, his big eyes wide and searching, and—and he looks so beautiful. The way he cares so much, the love that colors everything he does even when he’s trying to look stern, everything about Bittle is just so good. He’s the right person for Jack, and Jack is unbelievably lucky that he managed to pull himself up out of the shit and find someone wonderful, even though he still sometimes, in the midst of his deepest lows, feels like he doesn’t deserve it. He’s so lucky that Bittle took a chance on him. He’s lucky that Bittle loves him too.

The word echoes around his in his head, as Bittle’s lips curve up in the smallest little concessionary smile and he crosses the little space between them to deposit himself in Jack’s lap. _Lucky_. Jack’s arms come around him instinctively, cradling him, before he tips backwards onto the bed, Bittle giggling and clutching at him so he doesn’t fall out of Jack’s embrace, and pushes his face into the smooth, warm skin of Bittle’s neck. So _lucky_.

“Hon, don’t you dare rile me up,” he warns, but Jack can hear the sigh in it.

“I’m not, I promise.” Jack shifts them just enough that his lower body isn’t pressing temptingly against Bittle’s ass anymore, pulling him in so that they’re spooning, but not too tightly. _Lucky._ So _lucky_. “Did I ever—I’m…”

Jack must trail off long enough for Bittle to become concerned; he fidgets a little until he can lay with his head on Jack’s chest and can look up into Jack’s eyes. “It’s gonna be okay, sweetpea,” he assures, and sure it’s generic because Bittle clearly has no idea exactly what Jack’s thinking at the moment, but it still feels good to hear.

“I don’t think I ever actually apologized for what a fucking jerk I was when we first met,” Jack says, carefully controlling his tone so much that he sounds media-friendly to his ears, but knows that Bittle will be able to hear the sincerity beneath it. He just doesn’t want to yell or cry or sound self-pitying when he’s trying to be honest with the person he loves. “I know you obviously forgave me for it all, and maybe I did earn it, but I don’t think I ever said the words to you. So, I’m sorry.”

“O-oh.” Bittle turns enough in Jack’s embrace that he’s pressing his whole face into Jack’s chest—he’s avoiding Jack’s eyes on purpose, Jack knows, and it makes him tighten his arms around him protectively. For as much as people like to think that Bittle is strong—and he is, of course, Jack would never say that he isn’t—they don’t often see how vulnerable he can be, or rather, lets himself be especially when they are alone together. “You didn’t have to,” he continues, lips brushing against the fabric of the dress shirt Jack’s still wearing, “I mean, gosh, Jack, of course I forgave you. You worked so hard to prove it to me, you didn’t need to say anything.”

“No, I—I did. I should have said something,” Jack insists. It’s important. The words are important.

Bittle doesn’t say anything in return for several long moments, and the only reason it doesn’t grate on Jack’s frayed feelings is that he continues to stroke his hand along Bittle’s bare forearm in a soothing pet up and down. Then, so quietly Jack almost doesn’t hear it, Bittle says, “Thank you, Jack.”

Jack hugs Bittle in response and continues petting him until he’s breathing deep and evenly in Jack’s arms. Then he carefully extracts himself and gets up to change into his own pajamas, watching Bittle’s chest rise and fall all the while. _Lucky_ , he thinks again, and smiles this time.

He’s taking off his watch when it buzzes with a notification. It’s a text message from an unknown number, and Jack sits back down on the bed before he lets himself look at it. He knows that it’s not Parse’s number; it’s more than possible that Parse’s number has changed since Jack deleted it from his phone a few years ago, but he knows this one isn’t his either because the sender addresses him wrong.

**Hi Jack** , the message says, **if you’re available, please come to the service tomorrow morning.**

It sits like a stone in his stomach, but he knows he’s going to go, no matter how he’s feeling about it now—or tomorrow for that matter. Jack’s going to go see Parse tomorrow, and he’s going to watch Parse as he buries his father, and he’s going to say—he doesn’t know yet. But he’s going to say it out loud.

He climbs back into bed with Bittle and cuddles up to him again, rubbing Bittle’s back gently and trying to fall asleep.


	3. why are we always stuck

Parse is wearing almost exactly the same outfit he had on last night, except that his flannel is a pretty emerald color that brings out the green in his sea-glass eyes and his snapback is black with a pokeball on it, and Jack’s glad that he decided against wearing a suit again and settled on black jeans and a Falcs blue polo shirt because the first thing Parse says to him when he walks up over the crest of the hill in the cemetery toward the gravesite is: “Dad loved golf, man.”

“Unlike you,” Jack responds, with a shrug of his shoulders.

Parse laughs, and Jack tries not to hear the bitterness in it, when he replies, “Yeah well, unlike him, I fuckin’ suck at it.”

“No patience.”

Jack remembers the two occasions he’d managed to drag Parse with him and Papa to the golf course in the summer after the Memorial Cup before the Draft. Parse complained the entire time the first time, about the heat and about how long both Zimmermanns took to line up their shots and about how many times he failed to get anywhere near the green, but his crooked smile had been in place the whole time too and he’d looked so—he’d looked happy and handsome, and it’d felt a little bit like what a real life date might have felt like if they’d ever really had the chance to come out of the shadows.

The second time had been just a few days before their entire lives changed—Parse’s immediately for the better and Jack’s for the better only after several years of growth and reflection—and it couldn’t have been more different. Jack remembers being tense and viciously competitive. Parse’s smiles disappeared after four or five holes, and he stopped complaining after six, took triple bogeys on every remaining hole and tried to pretend like he didn’t care. It wasn’t until they were safely ensconced in Jack’s childhood bedroom, lying together on the bed with Jack’s arms wrapped tight around Parse’s torso, that he’d relaxed, but all he’d said was _I fucking hate golf, man_ , and that had been the entirety of the discussion.

Jack sighs inwardly at the memories; he’s never been good at apologies.

“Where’s your boy?” Parse deflects, folding his arms over his chest.

 _Where’s yours?_ Jack could say, or _the invite was only for me_ , or any number of other things that would be rude in some way or would invite Parse to say something cutting in response, and Jack finds that he’s not in the mood for a fight just yet.

“Brunch with my parents.” Jack glances down at the grass; it’s a very bright green, brand new sod probably, and it looks fake in the sunshine that’s beating down. Odd weather for a funeral, actually, if he thinks about it a little more. For some reason, he always assumes these graveside visits happen in the rain.

When he looks back up, Parse’s eyes are narrowed at him, suspicious and wary at the same time. “You skipped brunch for this?” he asks.

“Yeah—seemed important that I come. You asked me to come, didn’t you?” He knows the message may not have been from Parse’s phone, but he can’t imagine Parse’s boyfriend or whoever that guy actually is would have decided to invite Jack without Parse’s okay.

Parse smirks and looks away, says, “I may have…expressed the idea that it would be nice to talk about whatever the fuck that was yesterday,” in a tone that sounds like he’s laughing at Jack a little, or maybe just fond of that guy for reading between the lines of whatever Parse actually said to him. Considering that it’s Parse, it’s likely both. “Pretty sure he went to go pick my mom up and bring her here too.” He laughs, but there’s something a little ugly in it. “My fuckin’ hero.”

“I can go,” Jack says, even though he doesn’t want to now that he’s standing here actually talking to Parse and not making a complete fool of himself yet.

“Nah—” Parse turns back to him, and there’s something in his eyes that Jack can’t really decipher, but then he smiles and continues, “—it’s good to see you, bud. Stick around. The luncheon’s gonna be lit.”

As Parse turns to go intervene in what looks like a tense conversation between his grandmother and the same reverend woman from the wake, Jack has to take a long, slow breath in and out to keep himself from storming off to the car. Because the two options are ping-ponging in his head: stay because Parse clearly expects him to leave, with how fake and dismissive he was, or leave because Parse clearly wants him to leave, with how obvious he was throwing his boyfriend or whoever under the proverbial bus. _Fuck_ , there is absolutely nothing in the world Jack hates more than a lose-lose situation, and he’s found himself smack in the middle of one—as usual, when it comes to Parse.

He’s frozen with indecision, anger and humiliation burning in his gut again, wondering why he keeps doing this to himself. Time and time again, Parse riles him up, whether he even knows he’s doing it or not, whether he’s around to witness Jack’s anxiety or not, possibly even uncaring if he is, and Jack is stuck wallowing in it for as long as his stupid brain makes him. Parse—might die, and Jack will never get to figure out what happened with them.

The thought of Parse in the grave pushes through the deadlock in Jack’s head, and a weird sob-like sound rushes up his throat. He tries to keep it back, but it bursts out of him, loud enough in the open air that it catches the assembled party’s attention. Nana Parson gives him a dirty look, but Jack suspects that may just be her natural response to anything at this point, but Parse—Parse looks at him with what might be actual concern, before he visibly schools himself back into neutral and gets back to mediating between the family matriarch and Parse’s little act of rebellion.

“You okay, my dude?”

 _Theo Graham_ does look like a TV star up close; Jack grew up around famous people, and there’s a certain kind of effortless glamorousness they generally all possess. No matter how casually they’re dressed or whatever the situation they find themselves in, they always look put together, composed—more like an image than a real person. Jack understands that very well, actually, because hockey is pretty much the same. (Jack likes that about hockey most of the time—fans don’t want him to be anything other than a points-machine, and he’s happy to oblige them; it’s only the people he loves that he needs to open up to.)

It’s easy to quickly pull himself together in front of Parse’s boyfriend. Jack extends his hand to shake and says, quiet and even, “Fine, thanks. I’m Jack.”

“Yeah, Zimms, right?”

“Zimmermann, yes.” Jack lets go first and resists the incredibly stupid urge to wipe his hand on his pants. “And, sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”

Graham’s lips curve up in a crooked smile, and Jack has to bite back a laugh because he can see why Bittle would think Graham was cute, no matter how much Bittle insists that he just _likes the show, hun, oh my gosh!_ “Theo Graham,” he introduces himself officially, hands coming up to steeple in front of his chest as he gives a pretentious little half-bow-thing. “It’s really nice to meet you, Jack. And, uh,” he leans in a little, “I know Kenny’s glad you’re here. He…yeah. He’s glad to see you.”

Jack recognizes that it’s clearly a dig at yesterday’s gaffe, and annoyingly, it’s working. He wishes his little spat with Bittle this morning had ended with Jack taking Bittle’s extremely good and practical advice to just let whatever happened yesterday with Parse lie and gone to eat brunch with his family instead of showing up here to be made a fool of, yet again. But Jack has always been stubborn when he thinks he’s right, and he’s _right_ about this, he knows he is. He wants to figure out what happened, wants to talk to Parse for real for _once_ without it turning into something horrible. He wants to talk to his former best friend and make whatever it was that went so wrong between them right before he forever loses his chance to do it.

“I’m glad I could be here too,” he says, then turns and walks the rest of the way up to the gravesite, ignoring whatever response Graham may have tried to make. Jack decides he cannot afford any more distractions. He’s better than that. He can be better than that.

There are only two small rows of chairs and Jack moves to take the furthest seat in the second row, until Jessie Parson taps him on the shoulder and looks at him with what he’d kindly describe as hope, but what might actually be desperation in her eyes. “May I?” she asks, and Jack quickly shuffles over into the next seat. “Thank you,” she whispers back and gives his knee a squeeze, then draws her hand back into her lap quickly, folding them together and pressing them in an anchoring way Jack recognizes easily.

Jack watches Parse’s boyfriend settle in at Parse’s side on the other side of the grave. Graham takes Parse’s hand and brings it up to his lips, and Parse smiles lightly and nudges against Graham’s side once before he straightens up and lets his hand drop to his side.

Jessie makes a soft sound at Jack’s side, and he turns to look at her again, only to see a fond-looking smile on her lips. “I never thought—oh but maybe I shouldn’t…” she trails off and her eyes slip to the side to meet Jack’s gaze. “But you are family, clearly, so you…you know, don’t you?”

“I know,” Jack responds—because he does, obviously. He knows about Parse. He knew first, he thinks.

She smiles and her voice is soft and fond when she continues. “I spent such a long time thinking that I’d never…never get to see my son happy and grown, but here he is,” she says, as she lifts a hand to brush beneath her welling-up eyes. “I know this isn’t really the time or place, but I’m just—just grateful.”

It feels too pointed—hits entirely too close to home, and Jack just nods instead of responding. The service begins just a moment later, and he sits quietly, rises when he’s prompted to, and repeats the words after the reverend says them, along with the rest of the small group of Parse’s family members.

David Parson is slowly lowered into the ground after about fifteen minutes, and suddenly then it’s over.

Jack tried not to look too much at Parse’s face during the service, but he watches Parse now, as he shakes hands with his uncles and hugs his aunt and grandmother and the few cousins that made it out today. He watches Graham trail after and repeat it with almost everyone, like he knows them just as well as Parse does. Parse barely looks sad, but then maybe it’s just because he’s not alone yet. Parse always used to bottle everything up until he was alone, or alone with Jack, and then he let himself fall apart because it was safe.

They had lost what felt like a crucial game in the lead up to the President’s Cup the season before their last together, and Jack had been sullen and rude on the bus ride back home, alternately ignoring and snapping at his teammates for their poor performance and his own role in their loss. Parse had been his usual self, throwing around high fives and fist bumps, pepping everyone back up with talk of getting the next one, even providing advice to a few players who’d made costly errors. (It’s easy to see now why Parse makes such a good captain, the way he could so easily put himself aside and help them. It took Jack a few years before he stopped heaping so much pressure on himself that he could be a good captain on and off the ice.) But then, as he and Jack loaded into Jack’s truck to drive back home to his parents’ place, Parse had just started crying these heartbreaking silent, frustrated tears. “ _We should have fucking_ had _that one_ ,” he’d said, quietly angry and hurt. “ _I want the Cup, Jack. I fucking_ want _it_!”

“ _We’re going to get it_ ,” Jack had said back, certain in a way he never was.

Parse looked over at him and then nodded fiercely to himself. “ _Yeah_ ,” he’d said, “ _we’re going to get it_.”

They had parked in the driveway, and Parse had made to get out, but Jack pulled him into the backseat and into his lap. He slid his hands around Parse’s back, pulling him forward to grind their hips together a little. Parse’s breath hitched in his throat and his eyes widened, like he was surprised, like he’d never felt anything like it before even though they’d been hooking up for weeks. And Jack smiled at him and said, “ _Good game, Kenny_ ,” as he tugged a hand through Parse’s still-damp curls under his hood.

Parse cried a little more after that, but Jack thinks now, hopes, it was because he was feeling better.

At his side, Jessie Parson stands, teeters a little on the uneven ground and uses Jack’s shoulder to steady herself. Unsure why, Jack reaches his own hand up and places it on hers. She looks down at him, surprised, but then she smiles at him and moves her hand to touch his chin briefly. “I remember you now,” she says.

He wants to say _we’ve never met_ , but the words get stuck in his throat, and anyway, she’s turning away to greet Parse. Jack stands and awkwardly smooths his hands down his thighs as she hugs her son and says something into his ear that’s much too quiet for him to make out. Parse’s boyfriend gets the same treatment from her, and Jack watches them for a moment before he realizes Parse is waiting for him.

“So, you coming back to my place?”

“What?”

Parse chuckles a little and rolls his eyes; he knows what he said, clearly, and exactly how it sounded, so forgive Jack for being a bit caught off guard. This whole thing is bizarre, and he still can’t seem to find his footing. “The luncheon? It’s back at my place in Manhattan.”

“That’s three hours away,” Jack explains, probably unnecessarily, then laughs a little. Parse probably planned it that way on purpose. “I mean, sure, yeah, if you really want me to come. We were—my folks and Bittle and I were heading back to Manhattan anyway.”

“Yeah—” Parse cuts off abruptly as Jack takes his hand and they shake. He keeps his eyes down on their hands when he continues, “They’re invited too. Bring the whole fam. Should be plenty of food.”

Jack squeezes Parse’s hand once, gently, and lets him go. “Okay, will do.”

Parse looks up at him again, eyes distant for a moment before it clears and he grins the same way he did before: like Jack is anyone else in the world. “See you later then, bud.”


	4. we never learn

It takes less convincing than Jack thought he would need to get Bittle to agree to accompany him to Parse’s place in Manhattan; clearly, their fight about the graveside service this morning has been squashed, though Jack’s not entirely sure if Bittle’s forgiven him or is playing the long game of waiting until this next visit blows up in his face and then saying he told Jack so. It’s not really the kind of thing they do with each other, but Jack’s seen Bittle angry at people plenty of times, and he knows that Bittle can be great at holding onto things until just the exactly the right moment.

He hopes he’s forgiven. He’s going to need Bittle’s support while he’s surrounded by people who probably hate him at yet another party where he knows he doesn’t really belong.

“Oh lord, I know that this is about Kent’s daddy and all, but I’m really nervous I’m going to make a huge fool of myself in front of Theo Graham, hon,” Bittle says, as he practically wrings Jack’s hand off, standing at the front desk of Parse’s apartment building.

In spite of the nerves thrumming through him, Jack smiles and then brings Bittle’s hand up to his, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. “There’s really nothing to be nervous about with that guy, Bits, I told you. He’s like—”

“—a pretentious version of Shitty, I know,” Bittle finishes for him, and makes a cute face up at Jack. “And I already told you that I find that _very_ hard to believe.”

“You’ll see,” Jack assures him. Something about Graham had just rubbed him the wrong way, and Jack wouldn’t be put off his assessment of the man until he proved himself otherwise. “He’s got a way about him.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever you say, Mr. Zimmermann,” Bittle teases. He turns his bright smile on the security desk worker, who smiles back and indicates the all clear. “Fourth floor, right?”

“Right. Mr. Parson is expecting you.” Jack doesn’t miss the way that the guard’s eyes flick over to him, flashing with the kind of recognition that used to make Jack feel sick to his stomach at the thought of being so seen.

It’s odd sometimes, and it catches up to him, how much has changed—how much his life has changed since he nearly died. It’s possibly a weird thing to think, but when he’s looking at Bittle, watching him as he chatters on about some ultimately unimportant thing or speaks seriously about his future or his feelings, Jack sometimes feels almost like he’s someone else. Like whatever life he had before the overdose belonged to some other person and now he’s someone new—someone better, certainly, someone more confident and happier and more at ease, even during those times that the anxiety takes hold. Someone worthy of love. Someone worthy of the kind of love that Bittle has for him.

Parse loved him, Jack thinks, when they were younger, but it wasn’t—it didn’t feel like it feels now.

“I love you,” Jack says, sliding his fingers along Bittle’s freshly-shaved hairline. The elevator quickly deposits them on Parse’s floor, and Bittle giggles a little and blushes. “So much. More than, uh, more than I think you know sometimes.”

“Jack, honey,” Bittle says, as they linger briefly at the door, “I know. And I love you too, so much.” He leans into Jack’s embrace, pressing his face into Jack’s chest, and Jack feels the words rumble against him, warm him from the inside out. The reminder is always so good, and it’s times like this that he really needs it.

“Awwwww, look at the newlyweds!”

“We’re not married,” Jack answers immediately, eyes narrowing at Theo Graham, who’s grinning knowingly in the doorway.

“ _Yet_ ,” Bittle breathes. One of his hands comes out almost as if on its own accord and Graham takes it in both of his, clasping it between them like he’s someone’s grandmother instead of a tv star-cum-alternative musician. “I’m so…oh gosh, I’m already being such a dork, but wow, I’m so excited to meet you!”

“Pleasure’s all mine, Eric, right?”

“Right, but please, call me Bitty, everyone does!” Bittle’s practically bouncing on his feet and, if Jack didn’t think that Theo Graham was kind of an asshole, he’d find the fannish reaction really cute. “And, of course, you remember Jack.”

“Heya Zimms,” he replies, smiling that same infuriating smile from that morning. “Glad you both could make it. Come on in, make yourselves at home, the caterers are just finishing setting everything up in the dining room. No Bob and Alicia?”

“Oh, um—”

“—do you know my parents?” Jack interrupts Bittle, and he hears the steel in his own voice as he stops in the entrance hall. Graham turns around to face them again, and his expression has that unsettling thing in it again—where Jack’s pretty sure he’s being made fun of but he can’t exactly figure out how, and that only makes his temper flare worse.

“Not any more than most people I guess,” he responds, then rakishly winks and turns back to continue leading them through the hallway towards the spread. “Although, I did read for a role in your mom’s last movie. Could have been a pretty big break for me, but hey, _c’est la vie_ , right?”

Bittle quickly jumps in and starts peppering him with questions about _The Lonely Wise_ , deflecting from whatever he must have suspected Jack would retort with, and Jack follows more slowly after the two of them, taking in the layout of Parse’s apartment and looking at the little bits and pieces of his personality that are plastered all over the walls, while he makes an effort to calm down again. His heart beats a little faster in his chest as he replays the conversation in his head, though his eyes fix on the framed Aces sweater hung on the wall next to a doorway into the kitchen, and he lets his temper dissipate a little bit.

It’s clearly the sweater from Parse’s draft day, as there’s no C on the shoulder, nor a number at all, as Parse wouldn’t have chosen one yet. And Jack knows it’s just a trick of the light or maybe the way it’s folded in its frame, but he could swear it looks big. Too big, even, for Parse to have worn back then, and he’s obviously filled out as he’s gotten older, even if he hasn’t gotten much taller. It was just a gesture of course—a symbol of the moment Parse stepped into Jack’s skates.

But then, no; Jack will never actually know if the Aces would have wanted him first. He certainly has no plans to ever ask if he’s even put into a position where he could find out. The path he ended up taking was the right one for him, even if it felt like failure at the time. The path he ended up taking gave him everything he wanted, and more importantly, everything he needed.

“Big day, man,” says Parse, suddenly at Jack’s shoulder. “Dad was such a fuckin’ wreck. I chirped him for like an hour at least when he couldn’t stop crying about me heading to the desert.”

“Oh, so you also had that in common?” Jack responds after a moment, his lips curving up in a smile at his own half-assed chirp.

Parse nudges his shoulder and laughs lightly. “Yeah, yeah, fuck you too. The Parson men are cry-babies, it’s totally a thing.”

“ _Were_ ,” Jack corrects before he can stop himself—and the taste of the tactless joke sits heavy in his mouth. Why does Parse always make him feel so wrong-footed? He’s just always, _always_ bringing out the absolute worst in Jack. This was a mistake; no, it was a huge mistake, Bittle was absolutely right, there is no reason for Jack to have risen to the bait and shown up here—

“—dude, relax,” Parse says, and he presses his hand to Jack’s bicep for just long enough for Jack to look down at the point of contact, before he quickly drops it to his side, and continues, “seriously, you have got to relax around me. I’m not gonna—fuck, Jack, I’m not going to do anything, okay?”

Jack reaches up to the spot where Parse’s fingers just had been, then curls his hand into a fist and drops it to his side again. “That’s better at least,” he says, and hears the edge in his own voice. God, he can feel the anger starting to swell—at himself, at Parse for still trying to pretend that they don’t have history and then alluding to that history like it’s Jack’s fucking fault things are so strained, like Jack doesn’t have anything to be nervous about between them. He takes a shaky breath in and out and continues, “Sorry, I made a bad joke.”

Parse scoffs, and just like that, the polite ‘you could be anyone else in the world, it doesn’t matter’ mask falls back into place. “All good, bro, no worries. Everybody says weird shit at times like this, right? Anyway, food should be all set up and everything, please come and help yourself.” He turns to go, but Jack’s hand shoots out, almost as of its own accord, and grasps him by the shoulder, stopping him in his tracks. “Jack—”

“—Kenny, stop. Stop this, please.”

Parse keeps his body turned away, but he holds his ground, and that’s at least a little encouraging. Jack feels his anger swirling in his gut still, but there’s something anticipatory in it; it’s the same feeling he gets sometimes on the ice, during a shootout, staring down the one person that has the power to rob him of the win. The slippery slope between success and failure—it feels good.

“Jack, I thought we—”

A weird buzzer interrupts Parse, and he immediately shrugs out of Jack’s grip, straightens his shoulders, and goes to answer the door.

Jack’s fingers curl around nothing, and he drops his hand again. The buzz in his chest and gut remains, though, the awkward, uncomfortable feeling of being ready to take the face off, only to be tossed out of the circle with no explanation. The adrenaline burns, rising up like a flush into his neck and cheeks. He needs—he wants Bittle now.

Ignoring the little reunion Parse is having with whomever just arrived at the door, Jack continues through the apartment, figuring he’ll find Bittle in the kitchen by now, and he’s not disappointed to find him kneading out dough. That Parse’s boyfriend is standing there alongside Bittle, laughing and whisking something that looks like it might be peach filling, dims his pleasure more than a little. Jack tries to school the glare off his face, but he must not succeed entirely because when Bittle notices him hovering in the doorway, he frowns gently and takes a few steps back from how close he’d been standing to Graham. “Everything okay, hun?” he asks quietly, eyes flicking over at Graham once quickly, before he refocuses his attention.

“Yeah, all good,” Jack responds, which is not even close to the truth, and the lie only adds to the ugly feelings all mixing up in his head.

“Um, excuse me a minute, Theo,” Bittle says, putting his rolling pin down and coming forward to take Jack by the hand. He pulls Jack through the dining room area, past the servers putting last minute luncheon items out, and into a bedroom. “What happened?” he asks seriously, whirling on Jack as soon as the door is shut.

For one too-long, horrible moment, Jack actually considers lying again. Because nothing happened actually, nothing actually worth burdening Bittle with—it was probably all in his head, like it often is; Parse didn’t do anything, didn’t say anything, and just because Jack was hoping for something more from him in that moment, doesn’t mean Parse was required to give it to him. But he’d felt—there’d been something; there was something there, and if they hadn’t been interrupted by the door, maybe Jack could have said something more. Maybe Jack could have got his moment.

“Do you think I’m being stupid?” The question comes out of his mouth before he can think it through. It wasn’t what he’d intended to say, but as soon as it’s out, Jack’s suddenly desperate for the answer.

Bittle tilts his head down, shaking it a little like he’s disappointed, and Jack shoves his hands into his pockets for something to do with them, feeling immediately awkward and low. “Sweetpea, I don’t, um…” he trails off and moves away to sit on the bed, keeps his eyes on the ground when he continues, “I mean, we talked about this already, didn’t we? You know I don’t…I don’t think you’re being stupid. I think it was, um, a…it was a mis— oh lord, honey, I don’t want to get into this again. Not here.”

Jack exhales sharply at the rise in Bittle’s tone, and he meets Bittle at the foot of the bed, dropping swiftly to his knees and taking Bittle’s hands in his. “I’m sorry, I know. I know we fought, and I’m sorry I keep bringing it up but…fuck, _fuck_ Bits, I’m just—I don’t know. I don’t know what to do here. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Jack, I _know_ ,” he replies, squeezing Jack’s hands, unable to resist the sweet gesture despite his obvious annoyance. “I want to understand, I do, you know that, but I just…look—I thought y’all were done. I thought…I thought that after he said his apologies that y’all were done. You told me you appreciated what he said and then that was that. You…you’ve moved on, and so has he finally, which is obviously a good thing, so I guess I just…I just don’t understand and I _can’t_ understand why you suddenly wanted to dredge all this mess up again?”

“That’s just fucking it, though, Bits!” It tears itself from Jack’s throat quite without his permission, and he barely even recognizes his own voice, the rasp of it, the angry hiss and spit of an upset cat rather than himself, even at his angriest. Bittle’s hands tense in Jack’s, and Jack takes a breath, consciously loosens his grip and slowly tips his head forward to rest in Bittle’s lap. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to—I don’t want to fight again. I’m not trying to start a fight with you, I promise.”

“You want to start a fight with him, though,” Bittle says quietly, even as he slips his fingers through Jack’s hair, sifting through gently in a soothing petting motion, “That’s it, isn’t it?”

Jack closes his eyes and lets himself just feel Bittle’s hand, rather than face the truth of the question.

“—you can leave your shit in here—oh, huh, ha-ha-ha, sorry to ah, interrupt, kids!”

“No, oh my _lord_ , this is _not_ what it looks like!”

Bittle scrambles to push Jack away, but Jack sits back slowly, too overwhelmed with the thought of getting into yet another fight with Parse to allow the sudden intrusion of Parse’s boyfriend to get under his skin. Because Bittle’s right—Jack wants to fight with Parse again, wants to get into it, wants to scrap with him again like they used to because at least…at least if they fight it out one more time, maybe it will actually feel like they _are_ done. He never quite got his chance to end things on his terms. That’s it; that’s the whole of it.

“Um, hi, uh, Connor, it’s…it’s so good to see you?” Bittle says, but it comes out like a question, like he’s caught off guard and confused.

Jack stands up and turns to see Graham standing there in the doorway with Connor Whisk, of all people. Whiskey looks deeply uncomfortable, but Jack really only sees the smug-looking amusement on Graham’s face at their predicament. “We just needed a minute,” Jack says evenly, then extends a hand out to Whiskey. “Whisk.”

“Yeah, uh, hey Zimmermann…Bittle. What are you—I mean, uh, didn’t expect to see you two here.”

When Jack doesn’t say anything, Bittle smoothly cuts in, “Same here! But you know, we just wanted to support Kent during his difficult time.”

“Right…right,” Whiskey says, and his lips twitch a little with that same smug fucking amusement.

“What is this a fuckin’ traffic jam? Come eat the mountain of delicious food I’m paying out the ass for, you dumb motherfuckers—oh shit…”

Jack meets Parse’s eyes past all the others in the room and says, “Meet me on the balcony?”

They all seem to hold their breath, and it feels stupid and dramatic, until Parse nods slowly before the turns around and leaves back the way he came. Jack pushes past Bittle, Graham and Whiskey, and follows after him.


End file.
